


Afterword

by Romantika



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: An aftermath story with Thomas Barrow and others like him at the heart of it., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-06-30 02:30:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19843702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romantika/pseuds/Romantika
Summary: After reading the harrowing "aftermath" story that is Dementian's "And I for him", which I found profoundly moving as well as unsettling, I thought I might write an aftermath to that, set forty and more years later. Beginning in 1967, it tells, in widely-separated episodes, the further stories of some much-loved characters, and some new ones.Though gifted to Dementian, this whole work is dedicated to the many who suffered, and still do suffer, just for existing.





	1. A Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dementian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dementian/gifts).
  * Inspired by [And I For Him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5713354) by [Dementian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dementian/pseuds/Dementian). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important news arrives for some old friends.

It was a brilliant, sun-lit August morning in the Bay of Naples. Sky and earth blazed, and, in that sea of blue, the islands glowed. The twice weekly post-boat from the mainland brought letters, parcels, newspapers: hundreds to Ischia, but only a few to little Procida – on this day, however, one came to Procida that was special – air-mail from England, crisp in the _postino_ ’s hand. He glanced at the address: of course, Casa Didyma, where else, where the _inglesi_ had lived for so long.

  
He took the dirt road up the hill from the harbour, not walking so very fast – the sun was already hot, even if you’d been born to it. Cicadas buzzed, and a few gulls called from the waterside behind him, as he trudged along. In five minutes he was there, sweating and a little out of breath. He looked up at the whitewashed house, and rang the bell at the gate. Clattering footsteps answered, and a tall young man appeared, his white clothes almost flashing against his dark skin. He opened the gate.

“ _Buon giorno, Paolo”_ , he said with a bright smile. “We have letters?”

“ _Si, Gianni,_ two bills, I think … and something from _Inghilterra_ – it feels important.” He handed them over.

“Yes, doesn’t it? Thank you, Paolo. I’ll be down in the village later. Maybe see you there.”

“Maybe. Ciao.”

Signor Paolo Conversi, _postino_ of Procida, turned back down the dusty road, and out of this story.

On the other hand, Giovanni Petrella, man of all work at Casa Didyma, turned back through the courtyard of the house, and ran indoors, still smiling. “I think I know what this is”, he muttered.

As he ran through the house, he called out, “ _Signori,_ a letter from England!”

On the shady terrace at the back of the house, there was a round, marble-topped table and four wrought-iron chairs. There sat the “ _Signori_ ”, Messrs Barrow and Branson - as was their wont at breakfast, clad only in towelling dressing-gowns, one blue, one green. They are older and greyer, more lined of face than when we last saw them, but then forty years have passed. Tom has also put on a few pounds, but Thomas is as slim as ever.

Thomas, quicker to his feet, takes the proffered post: bills indeed, from the mayor’s office and a tailor in Naples. These he throws down on the breakfast table with barely a glance, but the third is very different. Aware of Gianni’s expectant face, and noticing Tom has quietly put down his cup of coffee, he opens the thick envelope, unfolds the heavy sheet of paper, and reads aloud:

**House of Lords**

**London SW1**

28th July 1967

Dear Tom, Dear Thomas,

Please excuse a letter rather than the more direct telephone, but I remember how difficult phone calls from here to you can be!

However, the good news I have warrants the written word, I think:

the Sexual Offences Act received Royal Assent yesterday.

The Secretary to the Wolfenden Committee asked me to send you, “off-the-record”, his thanks for what he rightly described as your “remarkable and moving” written testimony.

We hope for a brighter future, though this is just a start. Changing the law does not change hearts and minds.

With warmest regards,

Boofy 

“I never thought …”

“It’s actually happened …”

Two sentences clash across the breakfast table, and they stare at one another.

“Signor Tom, Signor Thomas, this is good, _no_?”

Gianni looks from Tom to Thomas, from Thomas to Tom. They are still staring at each other. Suddenly, Thomas walks round the table, pulls Tom up from his chair, and they kiss deeply and passionately, for all their seventy-plus years. Then they hug for what seems like ever, and start laughing, holding one another at arm’s length, their laughter subsiding, still eyeballing each other, smiling.

“Can I have a hug too, please?” asks Gianni.

“Of course, you wicked boy, come ‘ere”, says Tom.

After a few seconds, they all let go. “More coffee, _signori_?”

“Not today”, answers Thomas. “I think there is some good prosecco in the fridge. Would you please bring it out … and three glasses?”

Gianni flashes a smile. “ _Certo_ , Signor Thomas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The Sexual Offences Act 1967 legalised homosexual acts between men "in private", in England and Wales.  
> 2\. Arthur "Boofy" Gore, 8th Earl of Arran, was the main sponsor of the above Act of Parliament in the British House of Lords. He succeeded to his title when his elder brother, himself homosexual, committed suicide.  
> 3\. In Italy, well into the 1980s, telephone communications, especially international ones, were notoriously unreliable.  
> 4\. In Italy at this time, the difference between English and Irish would not have registered with most people. Both would just have been "gl'inglesi" (the English) or "i stranieri" (the foreigners), and there would have been no xenophobia implied. Tom and Thomas employing a young servant from the local population would have also been par for the course, with few thinking it odd, either, that the two foreigners were two men living in the same house - that was their business. Some would have whispered about it, but most would have said "live and let live", as long as there was no "scandal" - it's interesting how widespread such attitudes were, and still are. The local priest would have been delightedly surprised that both were, by upbringing at least, Catholics, though he would have been annoyed that they didn't go to church.


	2. A Telegram

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another brief chapter of my "aftermath" work, a sequel to Dementian's "And I for Him". Set in 1971, this chapter sets in train the events of the remainder of my work.

It was a gloomy grey April day in Yorkshire. Spring had supposedly sprung, but dark clouds threatened from the West, and the sparrows in the Dower House garden were half-minded never to chirp again.

In the morning room, Sybil Branson looked disconsolately out of the window, and sighed over her tepid breakfast coffee and cold toast.

“Oh, to be in England …”, she murmured.

The front door-bell rang. Feet clacked on the polished hall floor. Muttered conversation, clink of coins, front door closes, approaching footsteps, a tap at the door.

“Yes”, said Sybbie, and in came Becket, small, round, grey, sixty-something, her faithful, if somewhat exhausting cook-housekeeper. She looked down at the telegram in her hands, “From Italy, I think, M’m”.

“Italy?” breathed Sybbie. _Why a telegram_ , she wondered.

She held out her hand, and Becket gave it to her.

“Thank you, Becket.”

“More coffee, m’m?”

Yes, please,” came the distracted answer, “and some more toast”.

Yes, M’m”.

Becket left.

Sybbie stared at the brown envelope in her hands, hardly daring to think what it might contain. Frowning a little, she opened it.

**Poste Italiane, Procida (NA)**

**TELEGRAMMA**

Giovedì, 8 aprile, 1971

Terrible news STOP Terrible storms STOP Phones out STOP Tom dead STOP Coming STOP Thomas

“Haaaaaah,” came the almost voiceless cry. “Haaaah, uuuuuuh”, sobbed Sybbie, and then she screamed aloud, throwing the wretched telegram from her. “Daddy, noooooooooooooo ….” Then tears, floods of tears, unending floods of tears.


	3. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inhabitants of the Dower House await an important visitor.

One week later, at ten o’clock sharp, the front doorbell rang again. Peter Jamieson, secretary to the Earl of Grantham, happened to be in the hallway, so he opened the door, revealing a tall, elderly, slightly stooping figure, clad in a black winter coat against the ghastly weather.

“Ah, Dr Fortescue, please come in. You are expected.”

“Good morning, Mr Jamieson. Are we up or down?”

“Madame is in bed, Doctor - still not a hundred per cent, I think.”

“No surprise there, this has been one hell of a shock.”

“Indeed so, Doctor, You know the way, I’ll leave you to your patient.”

“Thank you, Mr Jamieson.” Fortescue nodded, sped across the hall and disappeared up the winding stairs.

Jamieson turned to the morning room, where his employer was finishing a solitary breakfast.

He tapped at the door. “Yes”, came the answer.

Jamieson opened the door and walked in. George Crawley, Twelfth Earl of Grantham, had actually finished his repast, and was sitting on a large, yellow-silk-upholstered Georgian chaise longue with his back to the window, buried in “The Times”.

He put down the paper, took off his reading-glasses, and smiled up at his secretary. His handsome face looked tired and drawn, and he seemed considerably older than his fifty-one years.

“Good morning, Jamieson. I hope you slept well, and have breakfasted adequately?”

“Yes, m’lord, thank you.” He glanced at the table, where a half eaten dish of bacon and eggs was congealing next to half-drunk cup of coffee. “If I may say so, sir, you don’t appear to have done either.”

“Well spotted. To be frank, I’m a little anxious about today. Have we heard anything further from Thom … er, Mr Barrow?”

“There was a message on the office answering-machine, left at seven this morning, sir, from Her Ladyship. She met Mr Barrow off the dawn flight from Naples. They took the first train they could from Gatwick, and with a cab to Kings Cross, hope to make the ten o’clock intercity to York.”

“Good, good. Dorothy is a star.”

Jamieson smiled. “Yes, sir, always.”

“I’m a very lucky man”, answered his lordship, “and I can’t think of anyone better to bring Mr Barrow here.”

“Indeed not, sir.”

“I heard you speaking to Dr Fortescue in the hall. How is his patient?”

“I have not seen Madame today, sir, but perhaps she will be well enough to come down later.”

“I love how you call her ‘Madame’,” said Grantham with a chuckle.

“Well, most of us do, sir. After all, she was Madame la Baronne de Grès for nineteen years.”

“Yes, indeed, how could anyone ever forget that? Monsieur le Baron: yuk!”

“Quite so, sir. Awful.”

“Hmmm … anyway, this is not the time to dwell on that bit of the past.” A pause. The Earl put his glasses in his jacket pocket, stood up, and walked to the window. He sighed.

“I do hope Fortescue won’t be too long”.

On cue, there came another knock at the door.

“Yes.”

Dr Fortescue’s saturnine head preceded the rest of him as he loped into the room.

“Well, Doctor”, said the earl. “How is Madame?”

“I am very happy to report, m’lord, that Madame is a great deal better. She slept very well last night, without a sedative, and I have asked Becket to take her up a light breakfast.”

“Excellent news! Will she be able to get up today?”

“Frankly, sir, I think no power in heaven or on Earth would stop her”, answered the doctor, wagging his head sagely.

“Full Sybbie service has resumed”, muttered Grantham to himself. He looked Fortescue full in the face.

“Today will be a difficult day for many, doctor, but my cousin has great strength of character. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure you will.” He paused. “If I may ask, is it true that Mr Barrow is returning?”

The earl frowned a little. “Did Madame mention it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, yes, he is, but we want to keep this all as quiet as possible. Downton is still a great place for gossip, as you know, and not everyone will be as delighted to see him as we will be. Memories are long, and tongues still clack.”

“Indeed they do, sir, but you may rely on me not to be the cause of any clacking.”

“I know I can, thank you.”

"Well, m’lord, I mustn’t stand here “clacking” any longer. I have two more calls in the village this morning.”

Grantham held out his hand, and Fortescue shook it warmly.

“Thank you, Doctor. Shall we see you again tomorrow?”

“Unless anything untoward happens today, I shall only call again in a few days’ time. I’m sure that Madame Sybil is making a good recovery, but please feel free to ring the surgery if necessary – any time, day or night.”

“You are very good”, said Grantham.

“It’s my job, sir.” A smile lit up the doctor’s wrinkled face.

“Jamieson, please see Dr Fortescue out.”

“No need, m’lord. I know the way.”

With the tiniest of bows to his lordship, he sloped out.

The front door clicked shut.

Grantham let out a huge sigh. “Well”, he said, “that all sounds pretty good.”

“Indeed it does, sir.”

“My cousin Sybil is a tough cookie, as the Americans would say.”

He looked longingly at the breakfast table. “I wonder if that coffee’s still drinkable.”

Jamieson put the back of his hand to the tall cafetière. “Feels pretty cold.”

“Could you ask Becket to make some more, please?”

“Right away, sir.”

Taking the pot, he left the room.

Grantham sat down again on the sofa, and put his head in his hands.

“So Thomas is returning”, he whispered.

_How many years had it been since they left? Seventeen, was it, or eighteen? All that government business during the war … Father died in ’46, and poor Mother in ’47… Then there had been the death duties, the estate sale, the auctions … and the legacies. Thank God great-grandmamma had owned this place in her own right, and could leave it to whom she pleased. The Abbey might have become a hospital and a hotel, till the National Trust put their oar in, and we had to sell a lot of land, but at least the Dower House was still a Crawley foothold, our “Northern roost” as his dear Mamma had called it. Poor Mamma, widowed in Nice, and too ill to travel, or she’d be hot-footing it here as well._

“We’d be full to bursting”, he muttered.

_Aunt Edith’s at Brancaster, so she and Bertie will come over later, bless them. At least they won’t have to stay, but I’d better get Becket slaving away at a bloody good dinner. I wonder whether Thomas’ll be able to eat anything. He’ll be utterly bereft, poor bastard._

“Now let me see”, he murmured, counting on his fingers. “Sybbie, Dorothy, Edith, Bertie, me, Jamieson … Thomas … I wonder whether the boys will make it?”

Jamieson came back into the room, quietly shutting the door. “Coffee’s just coming, sir.”

Thank you, Jamieson, I could really do with it. You, too, eh?”

“Yes, please, sir, I’ve been up since five-thirty.”

“Good heavens, why on Earth …?”

“I like to do my early morning run, sir.”

“Oh, yes, _mens sana_ and all that. Very laudable, especially in this weather, but not for me, though perhaps it should be.” He patted his stomach a little ruefully.

“I think, sir, you have little to worry about there.”

Grantham raised an eyebrow. “You are too kind.”

Jamieson’s face fell half a yard, “Sir, I meant no offence!”

“Good God, man, none taken! My grandfather would have had a fit if “staff” had spoken to him like that, but times change, thank goodness. Now, where is that blasted coffee?”

“Shall I go and harass Becket?”

“Never a good idea. No, please sit down and wait like a good boy – I will if you will … ”

A gentle silence fell. Grantham stared at nothing in particular.

A dull knock at the door (Becket’s knee). Jamieson went and opened it.

Becket tottered in, carrying a large tray on which was the replenished cafetière, clean cups, and a mound of hot toast.

“M’lord, Mr Jamieson said you hadn’t eaten much, so I thought reinforcements might be in order.”

She cast a look of mild disgust at what the earl had not consumed earlier, and with practiced dexterity removed the offending mess, putting the “reinforcements” down in the centre of the table. “I think you have enough butter and marmalade, sir.”

“Yes, Becket, thank you. Now, I have to trouble you with arrangements for dinner, and about who’s staying, and so forth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’ll be seven at least for dinner, but probably nine.” Becket grimaced briefly. “I’m not sure whether my sons will make it, though I hope they will. Have we heard from them, Jamieson?”

“Viscount Downton and Mr David should both be arriving back from Nice later this morning. They’ve been able to fly to Manchester, and will come on over in a hired car.”

“Excellent. We have enough bedrooms for everybody, don't we, Becket?”

This house will sleep sixteen at a pinch, m’lord.”

“Good, no “pinching” required, then.”

“No, sir, though serving dinner might be something of a stretch. I don’t know as Daisy can stay this evening.”

“Sir?”, put in Jamieson.

“Yes.”

“What if we asked your Lordship’s sister to bring an extra servant or two over from Brancaster? They could help with serving for so many.”

“Yes, what a good idea! I sometimes forget they still run such a grand show over there.”

“I’ll ring them, sir.” Jamieson smiled.

“Will you be wanting something elaborate, sir?” asked Becket, a little plaintively.

“Not in the least,” retorted Grantham. "Hm … it’s not the nicest of spring days, to put it mildly. Could you rise to a hearty soup, a beef stew, some good cheese, and … and … “ He frowned again, culinarily lost.

“Apple-pie and custard, sir?” suggested Becket.

“Oh, yes, brilliant, school food. I’ve always loved it!”

“The soup will be a carrot soup, the casserole that fancy Greek one you and Her Ladyship so liked in Crete last year – sti-fa-do it’s called, if I remember rightly? With mashed potatoes.”

“Yum”, said the Earl.

“And I shall put out double cream as well as custard, sir. Lord Hexham loathes custard.”

She paused, a smile of satisfaction on her face.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Becket.”

She turned and made for the door.

“Oh, Becket!”

“Yes, sir”, sighed the poor woman, turning round again.

“Thank you for remembering about the custard.”

*****

A few hours later, Sybbie crept downstairs. Though still feeling a little fragile, she was determined to be “OK”, “Today”, as she muttered to herself, “of all days.”

Becket had sent up a plate of sandwiches for her lunch, but there were still a few rising butterflies attempting to wreak havoc in her guts, and questions, so many questions rattling in her head as she crossed the hall.

_Why the telegram? Why not a phone-call? What had happened? What would happen? Had there been a proper funeral, a cremation … no, don’t think about it, think about … nothing …_

George and Jamieson were hard at work in the earl’s office, though at exactly what, she was not at all sure. George hadn’t been up from London for quite a while, so there might be quite a lot of “stuff” to deal with, she supposed. Anyway, that left the morning room empty and quiet, with any luck.

She opened the door, and there was Daisy with a duster, polishing the small dining-table.

“Oh, sorry, M’m, I didn’t know you were up and about.”

Not to worry, Daisy, I just thought I’d come down now … I hope I’m not disturbing your work …”

No, M’m, I’m just about finished in here.” She smiled. “It’ll be a little strange to see Mr Barrow again, won’t it, M’m?”

“Strange, maybe, sad as well, I must say. It’s all been rather a shock, to be honest … poor Thomas,” she added to herself.

“Shall I leave you, M’m,” said Daisy.

“Would you mind, my dear? I feel the need of a little more peace just now.”

Certainly, M’m.”

She left.

Sybbie sighed, “Yes, poor Thomas, poor, poor man, after all these years.”

She lapsed into reverie. Let us leave her to her thoughts.

The clock struck half-past two.

*****

The clock struck three, and still she sat looking into thin air.

_Poor, poor Thomas … yet they had many happy years … All that secret war work in Ireland, and then the nasty business after Turing killed himself … they moved away … I loved my visits to Procida … the peace and quiet, the blueness of the sea, that lovely house … I wonder what Thomas will do? He’ll be so lonely there now …_

Those, and many other thoughts, rattled around in Sybbie’s head.

The house was very quiet, but then the telephone rang, suddenly loud in the stillness. Sybbie could hear Jamieson’s voice from George’s office, though muffled by two heavy doors.

His voice fell silent, and she heard his approaching footsteps. He tapped at the door.

“Yes,” said Sybbie.

Jamieson entered.

“Ah, Madame, I hoped to find you here. May I ask how you are feeling?”

“Better … apprehensive, rather, but better … thank you.” Sybbie smiled wanly.

“That was Her Ladyship on the phone from the Stationmaster’s Office in York. They’ll be in a taxi as soon as possible, and should be here in less than an hour”.

Sybbie jerked her hands up to cover her mouth, and really did look worried for a moment.

“Well”, she mumbled. Then, out loud, “Right, let’s make ready! Could you please ask Becket to rustle up an absolute bucket of tea at the appropriate moment, and some more sandwiches – I remember that Thomas used to like cheese and pickle. I also know there's a damned good Victoria sponge in the house, since I ate a tiny slice myself at tea-time yesterday. I wonder whether there’s any left? … I wonder whether they got a decent lunch on the train?”

“I’m sure Becket’s got everything in hand, but I’ll go and check if you like.”

“Please do, thank you.”

Sybbie smiled again, broadly this time. “It will be so good to see Thomas, however sad the occasion.” She sighed deeply, and stared at the Persian carpet on the floor, lost for a moment in the swirls of red and blue.

“Indeed it will, Madame. … I’ll go and talk to Becket.”

He left, and a few seconds later George came in. Sybbie was still staring at the carpet.

“Where are you, m’dear?” he asked.

“Hmm? Oh, nowhere much … a long way away … and a long time ago, I suppose.”

“Yes, it’s odd to think of seeing Thomas here after so long, and … well, and … on his own.”

“Don’t shy away from talking about Daddy. I’m over the worst, though not having been able to say good-bye hurts like hell.”

“How not?”

“Only last summer he seemed fine, he had good medication for his heart, Thomas and that sweet boy, er … what was his name? … “

“Giovanni, I think …”

“Yes, that’s right, Gianni they called him, so … Thomas and Gianni to look after him, he kept as fit as he was able, he loved the garden there, pottering about, he used to go down to the village and play cards in the bar with the fishermen. It was a good life, and I think they were very happy … then out-of-the-blue that bloody telegram!”

Sybbie had been talking faster and faster, her voice rising in pitch almost to a yell, tears standing in her eyes. George went and sat beside her, taking her hands in his and kneading them gently.

“I … I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.

She gripped his hand tightly and stared him straight in the face.

“No, dammit, neither do I”, she rasped.

She pulled her hands away, stood up, and walked to the other side of the room, where full-length windows looked into the rain-battered garden.

Her shoulders shook briefly as more tears fell, then she turned back to her cousin, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“I’m sorry, George, I’m being so bloody feeble.”

“Don’t be daft, Sybbie …”

“Well, anyway, yowling like a bedraggled kitten won’t solve anything.” She wiped her nose, exhaled loudly, and continued,

“Now, I’m going to do something really brave: go and check on how Becket’s getting on with tea.”

“Good luck with that,” replied George.

“They’ll be here soon.”

George glanced at his watch.

“In about twenty minutes, I should think.”

With a rueful smile firmly in place, Sybbie stalked out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I have consciously departed from the canon of DA in making The Dower House the family’s home in reduced circumstances after World War 2. There are also far fewer servants: Becket, the cook-housekeeper, lives in, but Daisy drives over from the family farm every day; the Earl dresses himself, and his secretary is just that, also helping run what is left of the finances – George Crawley is hardly poor, since there is enough money also to keep a small flat in London, as the Earl would still have been a member of the House of Lords - but times have changed.  
> 2\. I am sure there are other details of "canonic departure", but I hope those better versed in Downtonian minutiae will forgive me any such faults.  
> 3\. Daisy, the maid, is of course, the daughter of Andy and Daisy of earlier days.  
> 4\. There is some "back story" for Tom and Thomas that needs to be filled in here: in 1928, they left Downton for Ireland, taking Sybbie with them, and setting up in business in Dublin, leasing and selling cars, with Thomas still sidelining in "butlering" and the like (there were still opportunities for that kind of work in the Irish Free State - for example, he was often seen marshalling the serving of grand dinners at Leinster House, seat of the Dáil, the Irish Parliament). They did pretty well, and Sybbie went to a very good school in the Irish capital. When World War Two broke out, Ireland was officially neutral, but, via some contacts Thomas had with the Anglo-Irish aristocracy, they both became involved in secret work for the Allies against the Nazis, who had agents all over southern Ireland. This was dangerous, and, for safety, Sybbie was sent back to Downton, before going on to read for a degree at London University, studying French and getting involved in a lot of student politics.  
> At the end of the war, Tom and Thomas were very quietly awarded government pensions for their contributions to the Allied victory. During the war, they had come to know Alan Turing well. He, a mathematician of genius and also homosexual, had done hugely valuable work in code-deciphering during the war, and shortly thereafter was much involved in the early development of computers. However, in 1954, he committed suicide after having been found guilty of "gross indecency" with a 19-year-old Manchester University student, an offence for which chemical castration was at that time also deemed suitable punishment. He was granted a posthumous pardon, under the royal prerogative of mercy, in 2013.  
> The 50s were not a good time for homosexual men in Britain (nor in VERY Catholic Ireland), so, acting on a hint from a friend in the UK Home Office, Tom and Thomas moved to Italy, where society was generally less moralistic and interfering, and where property was ludicrously cheap. They kept on doing some government-backed "observation" in the Naples area (post-war, there were many official worries about the rise of Communism in Italy), but, by 1967, had both retired.


	4. Arriving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of Thomas Barrow.

Another half-an-hour of slightly nervous quiet reigned in the Dower House, and then was broken by the sound of a taxi’s wheels on gravel.

George, sitting in the morning room, heard it, and rushed outside. Jamieson’s younger ears also picked up the sound, and he followed his boss out to the front drive.

As the burly taxi driver busied himself with a couple of suitcases and what looked like a sizeable wooden crate on wheels, Thomas Barrow emerged from one side of the back seat, Lady Dorothy Crawley from the other. Her Ladyship looked as elegant as ever, tall and dark, her soft brown eyes full of feeling, her lovely face quietly radiant. Thomas just stood there, seeming somehow a bit crumpled, his slim figure clad in black, his face a little worried, uncertain.

George greeted his wife with a chaste kiss to her cheek, and then went to Thomas, clasped his right hand and arm, and hugged him a little awkwardly – he was very English.

“Welcome, Thomas, welcome! It’s good to see you”, he said, blushing a bit.

“It’s good to be here”, answered Thomas, smiling, “very good, though …”

“Yes, I know. Come on in, we can talk more inside.”

He gestured to Jamieson, “You remember my secretary, Peter Jamieson.”

Recognition flashed across Thomas’ face.

“Yes, of course. You took a very good tan on Procida!”

"Didn't I just – didn’t last though,” Jamieson laughed, pointing at the grey sky.

Dorothy broke in, “Jamieson, would you mind helping with the bags? That … ”, she gestured towards the box on wheels, “Could you tuck that away in the office, please? Perhaps take it all in through the back door?”

"Yes of course, m’lady”.

He and the driver bustled off around the side of the house. Dorothy put her arm through Thomas’s. “Let’s go in.”

As they approached the door, Sybbie appeared. Her face showed she had been crying again, but she didn’t care. She ran forward and leapt at Thomas. “Oh, you …” was all she could say as she hugged him very tightly. “Hello, Sybbie,” he whispered into her hair.

After a few seconds she “put him down”, and, linking arms on his other side, Thomas was steered into the Dower House supported by two noble Crawley ladies, George bringing up the rear.

As soon as they got into the hall, Sybbie said, “Thomas, let me take your coat. You must be worn out. Becket’s laid tea in the dining-room, if you think you can handle that.” He smiled. “She’s been wonderful, putting up with me “helping”, and nonetheless providing quite a spread for you. In you go, I won’t be a sec.”

Dorothy, having deposited her own coat on one of the hall chairs, went with him. Sybbie grabbed George by the arm. “God, he looks tired.” “Who wouldn’t?” “Quite. Go on in. I’ll be right behind you. Where’s Jamieson?” “Dealing with luggage; there was … quite a lot.” “Oh?” she eyed him quizzically. She dropped Thomas’ coat on top of Dorothy’s and they both went into the dining room.

Daisy arrived seconds later, bearing a tray full of tea things – Becket had thought about this, too, and, as usual, got it right: the VERY best remaining Crawley silver tea-pot, monogrammed VC (for Violet Crawley) with all matching jugs and bowls. The china was another matter: Dorothy’s choice, green and white Susie Cooper.

“Hello ... Daisy, isn't it?” said Thomas. “How’re your mum and dad?”

“Fine, thank you, Mr Barrow”, she answered, amazed that he knew who she was.

“Still up at the farm?”

“Oh, yes, won’t ever leave it.”

“Give them my love, will you?”

“Yes, Mr Barrow.”

George sat in his accustomed place at the head of the table, Dorothy on his left. Sybbie gestured to Thomas to sit on George's right, her usual chair, and sat on his right. “Daisy, dear, would you put the tray down near me, please?” She looked round at the others, “Can I be “mother”?

“Of course, dear,” said George, squeezing his wife’s hand.

Daisy clattered out.

Jamieson came in and sat down opposite Sybbie. She poured, he handed round the cups and saucers. “Thomas, one sugar, if I remember rightly?”

“Yes, thank you,” answered Thomas, very quietly. He stared at the table, and put down the cup-and-saucer quickly, putting a hand to his mouth. The scarred hand. He no longer wore the glove.

Sybbie went and stood behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders. Nothing was said. She sat down again, silent.

“How was the train? Or rather, the trains?” asked George.

“They were fine, actually”, said Dorothy, “but the traffic in town was hell – the taxi from Victoria to King’s Cross took nearly an hour. They’d closed The Mall for some ruddy ambassador coming to be presented to Her Maj, so there was even more chaos than usual. We just caught the Intercity.”

“Oh, Lor’”, said George.

A silence fell.

Thomas spoke into it. “Thank you so much for meeting me at the airport,” he said. “It’s so long since I’ve been back, I don’t think I’d have coped with all the hoo-hah. London is crazy …”

His eyes were full of a quieter, bluer, sunnier place.

“It was my pleasure”, said Dorothy, “and you’re right, London is a madhouse. I’m always so relieved to get back up here. It’s grey, gloomy and cold rather a lot of the time, but at least you can hear yourself think.”

“Too true,” said Sybbie. “I haven’t even been down for the opera for, what, three years? Now, come on, everyone, do dive in. I don’t want us to disappoint Becket. She made a whole plateful of your favourites, Thomas – cheese-and-pickle on white bread; that’s right, isn’t it?” He nodded. Sybbie gestured to another piled-up plate, “and these, of course, are cucumber: Becket slices it so thin you could read a newspaper through it! – there’s Victoria sponge – marmalade fruit cake. Now, then …”

For half an hour, teaspoons clinked, cups rattled, and small-talk reigned. Daisy returned a couple of times, bearing a large jug of hot water, and the Dowager’s tea-pot was refreshed thereby more than once. Thomas made a great effort, but was largely quiet, though happily ate five sandwiches and two pieces of Victoria sponge: the British Rail lunch had not been wonderful, especially to a man used to the delights of _la cucina napoletana_. His attention often wandered, unsurprisingly.

He came to, with something of a jolt, to the sound of Sybbie’s voice …

“I have to ask: why the telegram? The phones were down?”

Thomas sighed, and turned to her. “There’d been a terrible storm on the previous Monday night, lashing rain and wind. Our phone-line up from the village was always a bit iffy, and one of the damned poles blew right over. We’d had no phone for three days, when … “ Tears came into his eyes, and he swallowed hard.

“Look, I haven’t told Dorothy about all this, I wanted to wait till I got here, and could tell you all, my friends … our friends.” He paused. “I need to go back a long way." He sighed deeply, "As we all know, Tom had this systolic heart murmur, that stopped him serving in the First War. About six years ago, remember, he was suddenly taken ill, and we had to get him rushed to the big hospital in Naples. It wasn’t a heart attack as such, but he was diagnosed with angina, and told to take it easy – never a good thing to tell dear Tom.”

He smiled, his eyes a thousand miles away.

“They also told him to stop smoking, so we both did – that wasn't easy, though it did us both good! And they gave him some pills, which I made sure he took every day, and which seemed to work: he very rarely had any pain, and no more “attacks”. He was in great form when you came over last summer, remember? Well, what you don’t know is that in February Tom was not at all well, a bad chest. Thank God the doctor on Procida is good: Signor Carmelo, born on the island, but made it all the way to medical school in Rome. Anyway, he treated Tom, gave him penicillin, all that, and he seemed to get better, but it was a horrible winter, cold and wet, most unusual for us, and Tom’s cough didn’t go away completely. March promised better, a good sunny, southern spring, but towards the end of the month we had all these storms belting down the coast – on and off for nearly a fortnight.”

He suddenly stopped, and took a deep, a very deep, long breath ... in ... out ...

“Now, that evening, April 7th, we’d had a lovely dinner, spring lamb – Gianni’s a damned good cook, as you know - and some lovely mozzarella ... a nice bottle of red … and we all three sat looking out of the window at yet another storm, going full blast. Gianni and I washed up and tidied, and then Tom and I went to bed. He looked a bit tired, but otherwise really good.”

He paused again, his eyes distant.

“We lay there for a long time as the storm slowly blew itself out, and must have fallen asleep about one in the morning. The last thing I said to him, as I did every night, was “I love you, my darling.” “You too”, he murmured, and hugged me.

Another pause. No-one seemed to be breathing.

"I woke up suddenly: at about half-past seven, I suppose. Tom wasn’t there. He quite often got up really early, so I thought nothing of it. The storm had completely passed over, and you could hear a pin drop. It was getting light, and I heard a lark singing, high up. Tom wasn’t downstairs, or in the kitchen making an early cup of something, and I thought, I know, he’ll be in the garden. He had a favourite spot, down by the statue, the _kouros_ they hauled out of the Bay a while back, remember? There was a big stone seat there, under the myrtle - from it he could look west across the island - “as far as Ireland on a good day”, he used to say.”

Thomas smiled at the memory.

“Yes, and he was there, sitting quietly in his pyjamas and dressing-gown. Very quietly. Too quietly. He had gone there to be quiet and peaceful, and … his heart had just given out.”

Thomas stopped, and breathed very deeply and slowly ... in ... out ...

“I didn’t know what to do. I held him so close, but he was already growing cold. Then I cried, I cried and I cried, holding him … I cried like a baby and howled like a dog, but he was gone.”

Thomas looked down at his hands, and tears streamed down his face.

His sobbing filled the room.

At last Dorothy spoke. “My dear, dear Thomas, what can we say, but ... thank you?”

Sybbie was also in floods, and, grabbing one of Tom’s hands, she kissed it. George was silently biting his lip, and Jamieson was very interested in his empty cup and saucer.

Thomas’ sobs slowly died away.

“I have brought Tom home.”

Sybbie inhaled suddenly, but said nothing.

“Yes”, continued Thomas, “he always wanted to come back here, he said, where you all are, where Sybil is, where the late earl and countess are, the dowager, everyone …” His voice tailed off. “I hope that’s all right”, he murmured.

“Good God, of course”, exclaimed George.

“In the South they deal with … death … quickly”, continued Thomas. “Certificate, cremation, “special licence”, all in very short order … I have the urn.”

“Where?”, breathed Sybbie.

“I put it in the office, as Lady Dorothy suggested”, said Jamieson.

“Thank you, Peter,” said Thomas. “Let him stay there for a bit – he hated admin …”

“Oh, Thomas …” George sighed, “and what of you? Will you stay with us, please, for a while at least?”

“That would be very good, thank you. Procida would be too empty for me just now, I think. We can lay Tom to rest next to Sybil, and then … then I’ll try to see what to do next.”

“Dear Thomas”, said Sybbie, “thank you for bringing my father home … or … I mean …”

“Yes, where is home now?” asked Thomas. “We had so much love and happiness between the blue sea and the blue sky, but I’ve been wondering a lot about that on my way here …”

Dorothy looked at her husband, and then said, quietly yet firmly, “Thomas, you will always have a home here.”

“Thank you”, said Thomas, “I have a great deal of thinking to do.”


	5. Arrangements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Thomas' return evolves.

Once tea was over, Thomas said, “I think I’d like to lie down for a bit before dinner.”

“Of course,” said Sybbie. “Becket’s made up the Blue Room looking over the back garden. I hope that’ll be OK for you. It’s got its own dressing-room, and a bath and loo next door. Up the stairs, right, third on the left.”

“I’ve put your cases in there”, added Jamieson.

“Thank you, that sounds great,” said Thomas, who suddenly looked really tired. “I hope you don’t mind my disappearing, but it’s been quite a day already, and I need to find some energy by dinner-time.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” said George. “I think the boys will be here by then.”

“Crikey, Robert and David – haven’t seen them for what, eighteen months …?”

He shook his head, and trundled off towards the stairs, then climbed them slowly. At last he looked every one of his seventy-nine years.

Sybbie watched his departing figure closely. “Gosh, I hope he’ll be OK … what a business this is …”

“That man has been through so much”, breathed George, “but this … so sudden ... horrible for us all, but …”

“But so much more for him”, said Dorothy. “You know, he talked about Tom virtually non-stop from Gatwick to York – told me such a lot.”

“I think it was a great love, m’lady”, murmured Jamieson, standing in the dining-room doorway, “very great …”

Dorothy put a hand on his arm, and looked him in the eye. “This has really affected you, hasn’t it? And you’re right of course, a great love, for all that some fools would have us believe such things are not possible.”

“Some fools indeed”, said Sybbie, scorn in her voice. “What those two fought for, and lived …” She shook her head. “I think I need a bit of a rest too”, she added. “It is my first day up and about for a week. I’ll go on up as well.” And she did.

“Darling, what about you?” said George, turning to his wife.

“I feel fine, actually, God knows how or why. I think I’ll go and read The Times, and then beg Jamieson to bring me one of his lethal gin-and-tonics in about half-an-hour” – she looked at the secretary, who was still a million miles away.

“Hmm - oh, yes, of course”, he said, coming to himself. “Extra lethality guaranteed.”

“That sounds great”, said George. “Same for me too – and you, Jamieson? Personal extra-extra-lethal?”

“Three enormous g ‘n’ ts at six o’clock, just as Her Ladyship likes. I’ll bring them to the morning room, shall I?” He paused. “Er, I’m afraid, sir, we do still have a couple of letters to sort out.”

“Oh, do we? … Darling, I left the Times on the sofa, and really need your help with 5 down and 11 across.” “Only two?” He smiled. “Please?” “No problem, I can nearly always fill in your gaps.”

She moved elegantly toward the morning room, and closed the door behind her. “God, I love that woman”, murmured the earl.

“OK, Jamieson, business first, then gin.”

With the tiniest of sighs, he went back to the office.

*****

Jamieson was a good secretary, and a bloody good maker of g ‘n’ ts. Letters completed, he zoomed off to the kitchen, doing his best not to get into the way of Becket, who was putting the finishing touches to a splendiferous apple pie - she did not spare the cinnamon, but was careful with the cloves, and had exactly the right combination of cold hands and warm heart to make fabulous pastry. Somehow there were limes in the fridge, as well as loads of ice; Plymouth gin, export strength – check; Schweppes tonic – check. He plonked three large tumblers from the dresser onto a tray as well, and headed back upstairs. “Excellent”, murmured Becket, “now I can have a sherry in peace.”

Dorothy was still in the morning room, deeply involved in a long political something in The Times, when Jamieson tapped at the door. In he came, and down went the tray on the table: ice - clunk, lime peel – zip, large amounts of gin -gurgle (Dorothy observed him narrowly over the top of the paper, and even she raised an eyebrow ever-so-slightly at exactly how much gin), not much tonic – scchhhhh.

“M’lady”, he said, offering her one.

George came in suddenly.

“Sir” - there was another.

Gurgle, sccchhhhhh – there was the third.

They clinked glasses.

“To Thomas,” said the earl, grinning from ear to ear.

“To Thomas”, came the reply.

The door opened, and there he was, smiling so sweetly it was almost painful, “Did someone mention me?” he said.

“Would you like some gin?” said George.

“Not half”, said Thomas. He yawned, “though I think it might send me back to sleep.”

“Ah”, said Dorothy, “you rested well, I hope.”

“Went out like a light for an hour and a half. Had a shower, changed, feel almost normal …” Thomas’ voice trailed off, and he stared out of the window.

Jamieson handed him a large, clinking glass.

“Thank you, most welcome.” He took a large gulp, “and bloody good, too." He smiled at Jamieson. "Gin in Italy is a bit odd, I must say – the local stuff, that is … and it costs a fortune to buy even ordinary English.”

There came a sudden scrunching of the gravel, banging of car doors, loud voices, key in lock, thump of bags on the hall floor, and … there they were: Robert, Viscount Downton and his younger brother David, tall scions of the house of Grantham, one dark, one blond, fervently hugging their mother and father.

“Welcome home, you two”, said their mother, “and look who’s already here!”

They both turned to Thomas, and smilingly shook him by the hand.

“Robert, David”, he said, “and both even more handsome than ever.”

They both blushed, and then all three burst out laughing.

“How was Aunt Mary?” asked the earl.

A few weeks in Nice have done her sciatica the world of good”, answered Robert,”and she hopes to come over when the weather warms up a bit more”. He searched in his coat pockets and pulled out an envelope, which he gave to Thomas. “She wanted me to give you this … “ to read when you have a quiet moment”, she said.”

“Thank you”, answered Thomas, a rather sheepish grin appearing on his face. He pocketed the letter.

“Now, go on,” said Her Ladyship, “upstairs with you both, shower, change, comb your hair, clean your teeth, look fabulous for our special guest.”

“Yes, M’m, right away, M’m,” they mumbled, tugging forelocks in the required manner, and shot out of the room.

Their father looked adoringly after them.

“Where do they get their energy from? A two hour flight from Nice, three hours plus from Manchester airport, and they’re still bouncing around like puppies! And,” he added, turning to Thomas, “you are quite right – they are good-looking, our sons, aren’t they?”. He stepped over to his wife, and placed a very big kiss on her cheek. “Get it all from you, of course“, he said with a smile.

“A bit from me, perhaps, a bit from you … a lot, I think, from your mother”, answered Dorothy. “And sweetness of nature – that from her, too.”

“Aren’t I sweet?” asked George, with a pout.

“Not as sweet as Thomas,” she replied, poking out her tongue.

“Hah! Sweet?” questioned Thomas.

“Yes, really”, answered Dorothy, “in all seriousness, yes.”

Thomas stared out of the window again, and twirled the tumbler in his hand. “Perhaps sweetness was one of many things I learned from Tom.”

He sighed. A silence fell. He waved his almost-empty glass at Jamieson. “More, please, Peter, if I may.”

“But of course”, answered Jamieson. For anyone who could see, his eyes were full of tears.

A lot of gin was drunk before dinner, A LOT. The boys were down in fifteen minutes, suitably scrubbed and prinked, and joined in with gusto. Robert was well into his banking work in the City, and David talked by the yard to “Uncle Thomas” about his Fine Arts degree at Oxford – he had one year left, and was obsessed with the Italian early _seicento_. Of all the family, he had been the one most blown away by his stays at Casa Didyma, which had started when he was only six: he had seen how the light there was so reflected in the paintings he so loved, how the faces of the locals were in all those pictures, how everything just fitted. Robert, by contrast, had loved the food and the wine, swimming in the sea and yearning after the local girls, though they rather terrified him. Above all, Dorothy remembered, she and George had worshipped the peace and quiet, which made even Downton seem like a hectic metropolis.

Sybbie had sat a little apart, glad to see her nephews, but thoughtful and rather quiet. She talked exclusively to Jamieson, whom she liked enormously. He seemed somewhat troubled, and drank more gin than was perhaps good for him. On several occasions, she put a hand on his arm reassuringly, and once could be heard to say, “No, it really will be fine, just you see.”

Seven o’clock: more scrunching gravel, and in came Edith and Bertie, both seventy-something and as spry as ever. More laughter, more gin, more talk: Thomas felt almost overwhelmed by it all, but kept a good face on. Nonetheless, he was glad when the dinner gong rang at eight, as was Jamieson (in particular), who was just about steady enough on his feet to walk to the dining-room, but only just.

*****

Dinner: a dinner larger than the Dower House had seen for some years, but, thank God (said Thomas to himself), no longer with the formality of old. Whether the Dowager’s ghost hovered over the proceedings, he could not say, but he hoped that spirit would not have been too horrified by what it saw. There were, at least, two servants (not in livery), brought by the Pelhams from Brancaster, doling out the meal with practised aplomb. Becket’s soup was guzzled to the last drop, and the stifado went down a bomb, the mashed potatoes helping to soak up the effects of all that pre-dinner gin. Much Chianti was consumed, and from somewhere a bottle of Vin Santo arrived with the apple pie.

“I didn't think we had any of this left, Jamieson?” said the earl, waving the bottle about.

“Don’t worry, George”, said Edith, “we brought that – we got a couple of cases in Città di Castello last summer. I thought Thomas might like it.”

“Very kind”, murmured Thomas, “we used to make something a bit like this …” his voiced just stopped, and so did everyone else’s.

He breathed very quietly. “You have all been so kind”, he said, “very kind to me … and for many years … for such ... a long time …” He took another deep breath. “Well, I’m sure … er ... hm ... during the last few days, as you might expect, I have done a lot of thinking, a lot of remembering, a lot of wondering. I talked poor Dorothy’s ears off all the way here, but I’d already been thinking a lot about a lot of things, and now … I have another kindness to ask …”

The dining-room was unreally quiet.

“Anything”, whispered Sybbie, looking at the earl. He nodded. Young David was all eyes.

“I would like to come back, back to Downton. Procida was a glory, and we were so happy there,” – he wiped his eyes with his dinner napkin - “but that has … ended … and I would like to see out my days here, if I may.” He stared at the table, very hard.

“Of course”, murmured George, “ … I had so hoped you would say this?” He was also staring hard at the table.

“But what about the house?” blurted out David. “All your stuff? Won’t you miss …?”

Thomas looked at him very sweetly. “There are many, many things I shall miss, but memories will always stay with me,” he put his hand to his heart, “and I don’t think I could live with the … ghosts in that place.” His eyes almost bore holes in the table's polished mahogany.

“There are some things I would like to bring back with me, if it’s feasible,” he continued. “The statue from the garden, as much of the wine cellar as can be managed, some books, a few pictures … AND …” He paused, opened his eyes very wide, pressed his lips together, and fixed the earl with his gaze. “I would like Giovanni to come here as well. He is the one soul remaining from Procida, and from that house, without whom I don’t think I could survive.”

George whistled quietly through his teeth. Everyone had their eye on him.

“I would love to see Giovanni here. He’s loads of fun, as mad as a bag of snakes in fact, and – he can teach Becket how to make pasta!”

“Thank God you said that before I did! exclaimed Dorothy, laughing. “I just hope he won’t die of the cold.”

Everyone was suddenly talking at once, except Thomas, smiling broadly, and Jamieson, whose eyes were like a couple of hat-pegs.


	6. An Ending, a Beginning, and an Epilogue ... or two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An end to this story.

Over the next few days, the Dower House was a hive of activity. The vicar, Mr Crackenthorpe, was summoned, and a very quiet, rather unorthodox, burial of ashes was arranged. Cables flew from the office to Italy and back, and then one day the phone rang, just as lunch was about to go on the table. At last the weather had changed, and brilliant April sunshine flooded the dining-room.

Jamieson hurried to see who it was, leaving the door open. A few seconds later his voice could be heard from the office.

“ _Buon giorno, Gianni! … Si ... si ... Si, si, ma certo … un’ attimo, ti prego_.”

His head appeared round the dining-room door. “Thomas, the phone's working again, it’s Giovanni.”

“Sounded like it”, smiled Thomas, “excuse me …”

Two minutes later, he was back. “Well, that didn’t take long to sort out: there are some rather peculiar American philosophic types who don’t want to buy Casa Didyma, but rather to take it on a long lease: five years in the first instance, and on very good terms. Gianni said they want to turn it into a centre for world peace, or some such hooey … as long as they don’t burn the place down, they can do what they like with it, as far as I’m concerned. They must have money to burn at least, taking a lease, rather than wanting to buy me out. They’re going to have a full-time housekeeper and a gardener as well: the place won’t know itself.”

At that moment, in came Daisy with steaming bowls of consommé, and everyone sat down. Robert was back in London, as was his father, so it was lunch for just five: Thomas, Sybbie, Dorothy, David, and Jamieson.

“Chicken consommé with lots of garlic, just as Mr Barrow likes it,” she announced gaily.

“Blimey”, said Thomas, “Becket does catch on, doesn’t she?”

Smiles all around, and much talk over lunch about “how this will all work”. Thomas proposed that Gianni sleep in the dressing-room attached to his room, and reassured Dorothy, who is highly amused by the idea, that, no, he and Signor Petrella would not be carrying on an affair in the house. There were no “threesomes” at Casa Didyma, and, as far as he knows, Gianni is bisexual, having had several girlfriends in the village, but also a steamy affair one summer with one of the local fishermen. David piped up that the village gossips will be overjoyed at having an “Eye-tie” around the place, whose very “foreign-ness” will give rise to all sorts of nattering in shop doorways. This gave Sybbie the giggles; Mr Jamieson was very quiet.

*****

In early May, Thomas flew back to Italy to supervise the handover of Casa Didyma. He returned three weeks later in a large hired van, he and Gianni having driven all the way. As well as several suitcases worth of clothes, eight crates of wine were unloaded, several packing-cases full of books and pictures, a few rather rickety bits of furniture, and finally an eight-foot-long wooden crate, weighing God knows how much and accompanied by loads of certification from the Museo Archeologico in Naples. Inside was the _kouros_ from the bay, which was set up, with much ceremony, on a limestone plinth in the Dower House's back garden. It was this that gave rise to all the new gossip in the village, the talk being that the Eye-talian gentleman used it for peculiar Popish rites. These rumours were successfully scotched by Mr Crackenthorpe.

*****

On a glorious morning in June, Thomas woke up, and looked blearily at his bedside clock: it was a little shy of ten-to-six. “Ugh”, he groaned, and turned over. But sleep did not return, and the birdsong outside his window was getting louder and louder, one very persistent blackbird in particular. “ _Ahi_ ”, he sighed, “no sleep for the wicked ... nor for me.”

He got out of bed, slipped a cotton dressing-gown on over his pyjamas, successfully located a pair of slippers, and padded off downstairs. He noticed that the outer door of the dressing room was open, and could see that Gianni had also arisen betimes. “Hm … I wonder …”, he smiled. One thing he had never forgotten from the trenches of Flanders was how to move quietly when required, so he slipped noiselessly out of the French windows in the drawing-room into the garden, blessedly cool in the early morning light. He could just hear whispered conversation and half-stifled laughter.

Halfway down the garden on the left was a large beech tree, now clad in brightest green, and there proudly stood the _kouros_ , and before it a curved stone bench, its back to the path. On the bench sat two people, their heads, one dark and one blond, almost touching, arms around each others’ shoulders.

Thomas approached noiselessly. “ _Buon giorno, signori._ ”

They jumped apart, and nearly jumped out of their skins. Giovanni stifled another laugh, but Peter Jamieson blushed to the roots of his hair.

“Ohh”, he said, clutching his chest, “you scared the life out of me.”

Thomas leant on the back of the bench, and regarded the _kouros_ for a moment. Gesturing at it with his head, he asked, “The old boy been talking, has he?”

Gianni took his hand. “ _Ma tu sapevi com’era, vero?_ ” he said. “ _Hai sentito?_ ”

Thomas put his other hand on Giovanni’s head and ruffled his hair. “Of course I felt it, of course I knew.” He looked at them both. “Be happy, gentlemen; be good to each other … or I’ll beat you to death.”

He let go of Giovanni, put his hand briefly on Peter’s arm, and turned away. Slowly he walked back towards the house.

“What a wonderful man”, said Peter.

“ _Vero,_ ” breathed Giovanni, “ _incredibile._ ”

*****

There I think I shall leave them all.

Almost:

One gloomy morning in January 1977, Giovanni goes to look in on Signor Thomas, to see whether he’d like his usual “first thing” cup of tea. He has died in his sleep, a quiet smile on his gently-lined face. He is laid to rest beside his beloved Tom.

In 1981, the odd philosophic Americans at Casa Didyma fall out badly, with rumours in the village of “ _affari lesbici_ ”. Thomas had left the house to Robert and David, so the Grantham family repossess it gladly. David is by this date a full-time art historian, specialising in Neapolitan art around 1600. Gradually he spends more and more time on Procida. Robert is by now married to Phyllida Conway, a banker’s daughter, and has produced an heir, George, a spare, Thomas, and a daughter, Violet. He also proceeds to make millions in the 80s stock market boom, and funds a research centre at Casa Didyma for David, where the latter has taken up permanent residence with the Duca di Montefalcone, an almost frighteningly handsome aristocrat of most ancient lineage – the gossips of Procida are in their element, but actually love them both dearly: Didyma parties become legendary.

One last note: in 2009, there is some muttering on the Parochial Church Council of St Michael and All Angels, Downton - a new vicar is due to be installed, but one person on the council has heard talk that the new man, Sybbie Branson’s youngest godson, James Harroway, is gay. The benefice is in the gift of the Earl of Grantham, and Sybbie, eighty-nine and as feisty as ever, hears about the muttering and phones Robert in London in high dudgeon, insisting he “sort these fools out”. He surprises the PCC by attending their next meeting in person, and makes sure Mr Harroway is installed with all due appurtenances. He also tells the muttering member, John Dodds, a local farmer, that “this kind of bigoted crap just won’t wash any longer”. Mr Dodds shamefacedly resigns, and goes back to complaining to his sheep. They are not amused.

FINIS


End file.
